


Cinema Criticism

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley says "ngk", Films, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Crowley's addicted to his action films, and Aziraphale grudgingly puts up with it. He's also addicted to the angel himself, and sometimes makes... public demonstrations.“Come on, there’s nothing scandalous about holding hands.”In Soho, he’s absolutely correct. Aziraphale sighs and laces their fingers, the vicar and the tart out for an afternoon stroll. ‘You could at least button up that shirt – it already fits like a coat of paint, and what is that you’ve got in your trousers – ““If you don’t know that by now I’ve been doing something wrong.”“No, that ornament – oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Crowley’s picked up, somewhere, a decorative belt buckle made up of the welded lettersBoy Toy.“Why don’t you just sell tickets to our next. Ah.  Engagement?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 198





	Cinema Criticism

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday and I'll write smut if I want to. Just a little outing to the cinema for our favourite husbands, with some running commentary.

“Really, Crowley, must you be so _demonstrative?”_

“You like it.”

“I find it _embarrassing._ You might just as well begin accosting people and telling them that we’re a couple.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You could _humour_ your stuffy old angel. I’m not accustomed to these sorts of _improprieties,_ Crowley, isn’t it enough that I’m accompanying you to this lurid entertainment – “

“You know what it does to me.” (True. Crowley’s preferred form of mindless action-adventure seems to leave him even more avid and inventive than usual in bed – a situation in which the angel is definitely _not_ stuffy – and more vocal in his ardour, if that’s possible. For a subtil serpent, Crowley’s inexplicably inclined – or so it seems to Aziraphale – to let the whole block of flats know _what it does to him.)_ “Come on, there’s nothing scandalous about holding hands.”

In Soho, he’s absolutely correct. Aziraphale sighs and laces their fingers, the vicar and the tart out for an afternoon stroll. ‘You could at least button up that shirt – it already fits like a coat of paint, and what _is_ that you’ve got in your trousers – “

“If you don’t know that by now I’ve been doing something wrong.”

“No, that ornament – oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Crowley’s picked up, somewhere, a decorative belt buckle made up of the welded letters _Boy Toy._ “Why don’t you just sell tickets to our next. Ah. Engagement?”

“Proud of you, angel. Like people knowin’ I’m yours and that you’ll have me.”

“I certainly _shall,_ but not under these circumstances.”

“Ah, wouldn’t there be a thrill to it? Duck behind that bus shelter – it’s all papered over with adverts – just enough room to put your back up against it while I – “

“And get us arrested for public lewdness.” The angel speaks hurriedly to distract himself from the stir the idea’s created inside his own trousers. Crowley’s going to pay handsomely for this when they get back from the film. Maybe dinner can wait until later.

“So what do we know about this – _farrago_ of derring-do you insisted on seeing? Who’s acting in it? Is it an adaptation?”

“Oh, who _cares_ , angel. It’s not one of your art-house films with meaningful framing shots and _motifs_ and soul-searching. It’s just a flimsy excuse for fight scenes, car chases, lots of explosions, sex in desperate circumstances. Actors gettin’ sweaty and dirty and breathing hard.”

“Very well, then, I suppose you must have what you must have.”

“Oh, I _must.”_

The afternoon show is always discounted (the angel, who has bursts of frugality left over from constant docking of his Celestial wages, likes that) and sparsely attended. Single patrons, couples, one party of noisy youths with a louche banquet from the attached pub dot the theatre. Crowley pulls the angel past them up to a high row in the stadium seating.

“Only way I ever get to see anything from on high again. ‘Cept for when I was you, didn’t get much chance to rubberneck.”

They’ve bought the largest size of the chain’s trademark sweet popcorn and a bottle apiece of something that claims to be Real Ale – not Aziraphale’s usual drink, but it seems to fit the food and the venue. Interminable trailers roll by: CGI monsters, battling robots, animations that give the angel a faint ache behind all his dozens of ethereal eyes. He’s closed the mortal ones by the time the feature starts: some sort of setup scene establishing that the hero was war-scarred and traumatized and pressed into his country’s service, an assignment, an almost immediate assassination attempt. Crowley’s hand dips periodically into the square paper carton in Aziraphale’s lap. The action on the screen must be riveting him, because periodically he misses. He will, Aziraphale huffs to himself, be responsible for miracling any grease stains off the cashmere.

He misses again. The hand lingers.

The pointed nails rake slowly over the wool. Aziraphale hisses in a breath. The nails draw circles, arabesques, dipping to trace over his inner thigh. Very close to what’s becoming an all too obvious awakening of angelic energies. He shifts in the seat.

“ _Crowley,”_ he whispers. “You _know_ how that affects me.”

“Don’t I,” murmurs Crowley, barely audible through a string of tyre squeals on the soundtrack.

“ _Stop.”_

“Shan’t.”

The nails tease up along the inner seam of his trousers, a single forefinger scratching a light filigree line over what’s now a helplessly swelling bulge trapped against his leg.

“You can’t _do_ that in here.” Though part of him's aching for it to continue.

“Doin’ it, en’t I? Oh, here’s the part they mentioned in the reviews, where the car flies right into the second floor window.” Aziraphale stifles another inbreath: Crowley’s punctuated the sentence with a lingering squeeze. “Glad we got the _bigger_ size,” he muses, dipping into the popcorn again.

“This is vulgar.”

“Yes,” says Crowley deliciously, He likes Aziraphale’s preference for wearing braces instead of a belt, partly because it just looks hot and partly because it’s that much less to get through. The top button of the cashmere trousers pops softly open.

“See, now, people could _hear_ zippers, but there’s my old-fashioned angel.”

The second and third buttons yield. Sweetly sharp, glazed nails slide inside the angel's silk boxers, inscribing something on the soft roll of flesh below his navel, maybe Crowley’s name in old Enochian, Heaven (or Hell) alone knows. There'll have to be a reckoning for this; the trousers are definitely going to be stained, not with butter.

“Mm, _this_ doesn’t want me to stop,” whispers Crowley, thumbing the sheath of skin slowly back and forth over a thick crown of hard flesh, through damp silk that’s growing damper. “Come out and play.” The onscreen action’s turned to breathless but quieter conversation and Aziraphale bites back on a low whine. Cooled air meets the heat of his prick as Crowley’s hand slips all the way inside his pants and frees it.

He doesn’t remember actually deciding to slide down a little in the seat so that he can rock into that teasing, loving grip. He whimpers when it briefly lifts away.

“Shhh, angel,” comes the almost soundless whisper near his ear. “Lick.”

Fingertips play over his lips, the hand covers his mouth as if to shush him. He gives it a long, buttery lap, flicking the tip of his tongue in the hollow of Crowley’s palm where he knows it’s sensitive.

“Naughty angel… goin' to make you _want_ this. Make you beg me _not_ to stop.”

He’s leaking steadily now, onto his untucked shirttails and the springy sparse hairs that cover his belly. Crowley teases maddeningly, squeezing his shaft while he thumbs the foreskin again, working it back until he’s flicking the tight string of flesh that the Almighty apparently designed into this feature of human corporations for the express purpose of making someone moan. It’s almost too sensitive. Thankfully, things on the soundtrack are exploding again. It seems likely that he’s going to join in sometime in the very near future.

“Tell me how you want it,” breathes the demon in his ear. “Slow? Fast?”

“Just _do_ it,” shivers Aziraphale. “Please.”

“See, that didn’t take long.”

Some fading sense of propriety moves him to position the half-full paper carton in front of the scene of Crowley’s endeavours, but the demon, lifting off his sunglasses, almost immediately nudges it away and dips his head. It’s almost impossible to suppress the grunt that tries to escape his throat as Crowley’s mouth closes hotly over him. There’s always a deep fire in Crowley, something of Hell that’s never going to go away, and it pulls at the angel’s senses, making him long to thrust.

Crowley’s still for a long moment, only the oriflamme of his divided tongue flickering up and down the shaft. Then he begins to suck slow and steady, a pulse that the angel’s hips rock helplessly into; draws back to tease him into pushing up between wickedly nibbling lips. He can feel himself hardening more, the pulse that means the point of no return thumping as Crowley swallows him entirely in a long slide, snakes can get anything down their throats can’t they, and he’s only aware of his fingers knotted in the long hair – Crowley’s gone back to the half-bun, and it’s ruined for now – as he comes on a long, soundless outbreath.

Stuntmen are still running through corridors and gunshots punctuate the soundtrack. Crowley leans back, yellow eyes reflecting faintly, the ophidian tongue just visible tracing his glistening lips.

“Best thing I’ve ever had to eat at the movies,” he purrs.

No one seems to be paying any attention. At least two of the yobs in the row far below them are texting on their mobile phones.

“Going to get that back from you later, en’t I?” Crowley squeezes the angel’s hand as it slides a little limply across the seat arm, covers his damp one. Then jumps as it moves on to pop _BOY TOY_ out of the snakeskin belt. It's one of those simple buckles with a small hook that lifts easily away.

“ _What are you doing?”_

“Well. We always tried to keep the score even, didn’t we? You wile, I thwart, and so on?”

 _“Not in here._ You know how I – “

“Oh yes, I do. Very loud. Made the neighbours pound on the ceiling in the flat below yours last week. You’ll just have to bottle it up, won’t you?”

He’s careful that no one _hears a zipper._ A slow, tooth-by-tooth lowering of the slide, feeling Crowley try to push into his hand. The proceedings have clearly had a profound effect. He doesn’t wear underpants of course, and his warm, sharp scent teases the angel’s nostrils briefly as he springs free.

The tip of his cock, peeping out of its silky sleeve, is always such a delicacy: a long slit fore to aft, creasing plump, tender flesh that simply begs for the circling of a thumb.

“You _bassstard,”_ hisses Crowley.

“Hush, dear, we’re getting to the exciting part. You always like those tense moments before everything starts blowing up.”

He’s pushed his sunglasses back on, regrettably, because Aziraphale loves to see the distant look and the dilating pupils of those golden eyes as he comes undone, but the light from the screen’s fitful anyway. He works the skin almost absently, with clustered fingertips, over the hard flare of the thick cockhead.

“You’re right, this is much more absorbing than I would have expected,” he whispers conversationally. “I usually think of these things as an hour or two of random violence, but I see there’s a rhythm to it. A series of buildups and climaxes.”

The suspense music is back on the soundtrack, Crowley’s seeping a gratifying slick, and the angel’s thumb strokes it slowly the length of the prominent ridge down the underside of his long cock. Up again, teasing the little opening some more.

“The tension’s exquisite, isn’t it? If he makes a sound, he’ll be rumbled. This is clever use of the low string section in the score. Almost like suppressed breaths.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says.

“And then that rat makes a rustling noise – here, there’s some of this left – “ He holds a sticky bit of popcorn against Crowley’s lips, waits for him to tongue it off. “Almost given away. Ah. They’re coming closer. He’s trying to press himself into that narrow space, hoping the light won’t show him up – but it looks like the water’s rising, I don’t know how long he has before he’s forced out – I didn’t catch that, dear?”

“ _Sssss_. Gonna.”

“Can’t hear you.”

“ _Damn_ it.”

“You would know. Oh, here it goes – the whole structure is giving way – he’ll have to swim for it – really, this is a good deal more enjoyable than I ever anticipated – what’s that, dear?”

Crowley’s fangs are out, and there’s a deep dent in the side of his lower lip that the angel can see. He’s shaking all over, as if he’s cold, except that the heat is pouring off him.

There’s a footfall in the aisle, drawing closer. Aziraphale thrusts the tub of popcorn into Crowley’s lap.

“Oi, mate, could you give all the whisperin’ a rest? Drivin’ us barmy.”

“Oh, – dear. I’m so sorry. My friend is visually impaired, you can see – I like to help him keep up with the onscreen action – I suppose we could do this at home, but sometimes you do so want the whole cinema experience. The surround sound, and so on.”

“Oh. Ah – well, s’pose I can understand that. Sorry.”

“We’ll try to keep it down.”

The footsteps recede.

“At least until we get home, I suppose,” Aziraphale adds quietly. “Do you think we can manage?”

“See how this ends first?”

“If we must. I’m developing a taste for the pastime.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are kisses, reblogs are life, comments are candy that doesn't hurt your teeth. Come share reviews with me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech 😘


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